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I don’t swear. In church. I know, I don’t go to church, but if I did, I would not stand up in the middle of a sermon and say, Motherfucker, that’s a load of bullshit. I wouldn’t do that. I may think it. And I may say something like that under my breath or very mumbled so as to be literally impossible to tell apart from, Amen, preach it brother Bob.

I don’t go to church. Just clearing that up.

But I should swear less offensively around the house. Probably. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. Okay, hardly ever. Like when I’m washing up the dishes and a million fucking flies — okay, maybe two or three — keep buzzing around me and my attempts at swatting them out the window fail more than GW Bush at world leadership and J Zuma at monogamy. At that moment dropping the F-bomb is an involuntary reaction. I hate flies. Come on, they lap dance on dog turds and then attempt to spread the love. Fuck them.

Maybe I should start swearing in French. After all, it ought to be my home language, not English, what with my French surname and all. Or at least a second language. And because it’s not even a remotely understood language among my family members (except for my dad who lives far away), I reckon it would solve all the bad vibes that fly around when I get dive-bombed by fucking shitty lapdancers.

If my kids start saying merde and merde alors I’ll just move over to Spanish. Or Latin.

Note: Swearing in foreign will work just as well at the office, especially if it’s frowned upon to use four-letter words or their bastard children (motherfucker, asshole, gigantic-fucking-moron) when your boss keeps giving you more work and eating away at your funtime on the internets.

The Moron

Follow my unholy joyride at your own peril. Be warned, careless insults and gratuitous profanity buzz around these pages like flies about a dead llama. But you will also read unbelievably profound wisdom that will completely blow your mind and make you come back for more. Or shoot yourself. Your choice.

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